His eyes followed the lines he had written.
“O.K.”
Now, striking the gong, he spoke into the microphone: “Squads attention!” His own voice sounded strange to him. “Squads attention! Robbers breaking in at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Squad 36 assigned.”
Repeating: “Robbers breaking in at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Squad 36 assigned.”
Once more, save for the ticking of his watch and the faint throb of the jazz orchestra penetrating the padded walls, his cubby-hole was silent.
“Queer business,” he murmured.
He tried to picture what was happening ten miles away at 6330 Drexel Boulevard. Burglars had been breaking in. Who had reported them? He pictured neighbors looking through a darkened window, seeing the burglars prying up a window. He saw the neighbors tip-toeing to a telephone, notifying the police.
“And then the Chiefs call to me; my call to the squad. The burglars are inside by now. And here comes the squad. Clang! Clang! Clang!
“They are not the first arrivals. Nearby residents have heard the squad call. In dressing gowns and slippers they have rushed outside.
“But the burglars?” he mused, settling back in his chair. “Did they get them? Who knows? If they were professionals, wise to all the tricks of escape, probably not. If they were amateurs, first-timers, boys who saw romance in crime, probably they were caught. And Drew says one professional is worth ten first-timers in jail. The first-timer may never repeat. The professional will never do anything but repeat. It’s his business, his profession. And what a profession! Bah! I’d rather—”